 Countdown for Blastoff. X minus five. Four. Three. Two. X minus one. Fire. From the far horizons of the unknown come tales of new dimensions in time and space. These are stories of the future. Adventures in which you'll live in a million or could be years on a thousand maybe worlds. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy's science fiction magazine presents X minus one. Tonight, the discovery of Mourniel Matherway by William Tenth. Everyone is astonished at the change in Mourniel Matherway since he was discovered. Everyone, that is, but me. They remember him as an unbathed and untalented Greenwich Village painter who began almost every second sentence with I and ended every third one with me. You see, I understand the change in him because I was there the day he was discovered. We were talking about his discovery that day. I was sitting carefully balanced on the one wooden chair in his cold little Bleecker Street studio because I was too sophisticated to sit in the easy chair. Come on, Dave, take a comfortable seat. No, no, Mourniel, no. I know about that chair. Now, what do you mean? It's the only comfortable chair in the room. Now, look at it, broken down spring, very high in the front and low in the back. Sure, it conforms with the position of the spine. Yeah, sure, sure. And when you sit in it, things begin sliding out of your pockets. Loose change, keys, wallets, anything. What do you do, Mourniel? Pay the rent on your studio with that easy chair? Well, as a matter of fact, it is rather profitable. And that's why I'll sit on the wooden chair, if you don't mind. Oh, now don't be bourgeois. Well, I notice you always sit on the bed. That's because I'm a good host. Well, how's the painting going? Oh, great, great. Fabulous. You selling the painting? No. You know, Dave, I can't wait for the day when some dealer, some critic with an ounce of brain sees my work. I can't miss, Dave. I know I can't miss. I'm just too good. Sometimes I get frightened at how good I am. It's almost too much talent for one man. Well, there's always... Not that it's too much talent for me. I'm big enough to carry it, fortunately. I'm large enough of soul. Oh, good. I'm glad to hear it. You know what I was thinking about this morning. No, but to tell you the truth... I was thinking about Picasso, Dave. Picasso and Roure. I'd just gone for a walk through the Pushcart area to have my breakfast. You know the old hands quicker than the eyes. I know. I've seen you do it. You're the only man I know who can ask directions to Houston Street and fill his pockets full of bananas at the same time. Oh, well, society owes the artist something. Anyway, I started to think about the art of modern painting. I think about that a lot, Dave. It troubles me. You do, huh? Well, I... I was thinking, who is really doing important work in painting today? Who is really an unquestionable great? I could think of only three names. Picasso, Roure and me. Well, naturally. Just three names no more. Oh, it made me feel very lonely, Dave. Yeah, well, I can see that. And then I asked myself, why is this so? Has absolute genius always been so rare? Why has my impending discovery been delayed so long? Why have I thought about it for a long time, Dave? I've thought about it humbly, carefully, because it's an important question. And this is the answer I came up with. Don't bother waiting for the answer that Morniel came up with. It turned out to be a theory of aesthetics. I'd heard at least a dozen times before from a dozen other painters in the village. Morniel was a bad painter. There was no question about it. I say that not only from my opinion. I've roomed with two modern painters and I've been married for a year to another. Well, for example, a friend of mine, a fine critic of modern art, took a look at one of Morniel's paintings which he hung over my fireplace in spite of my protests and just kind of stared slack-jawed. What... What does he call that technique? Well, he says it's smudge on smudge. Well, I can believe it. Smudge on smudge, white on white. None-objectivism, neo-extractionism. Call it what you like. There's nothing there, nothing. It doesn't even have the interest of those paintings that chimpanzee did a couple of years ago. He's just another of those loudmouth, frowsy, frustrated dilettants that infest the village. Why do you waste your time with him? Well, for one thing, he lives right around the corner and he's kind of colorful in his own sick way. And he does have one great talent. It's not in painting. No, no. Now, you see, I just get by as far as living expenses are concerned. Things like good paper to write on, my library... I can't touch him. And sometimes the yearning gets too great. You know, a newly published collection by Wallace Stevens. Well, if I find one I want, I just go over to Mourniel's and tell him about it. He doesn't lend you money. Oh, no, no. Now, you see, we go out to the bookstore and we come in separately. And then I start a conversation with the proprietor about some very expensive out-of-print item I'm thinking of ordering, and Mourniel just says, what's Mourniel's browsing? Well, what happens? Well, while I'm keeping the proprietor talking, Mourniel snaffles the Stevens. Isn't that just a little bit... Oh, well, I intend to pay for them, of course, as soon as I'm a little ahead. Well, why does he do this for you? Oh, well, I pay off. I go through the same routine at an art supply store so Mourniel can get canvas and paint and brushes. Of course, I really have to pay for Mourniel's browsing. I have to suffer through listening to him Oh, it does. Yes, you see, I intend to pay for my things, but I know he doesn't. And that's why my conscience bothers me. Well, here he was the day he was discovered sitting in his room, and Mourniel was running on about his own genius. No, I can't be as unique as I feel. Other people must be born with the potential of such great talent, but it's destroyed in them before they can reach artistic maturity. Why, how? Well, let's examine the role that society plays What's that? Are you going to high-five, sir? Nonsense. That's a crass materialistic concept that I think something is happening. Hey, why don't you put the purple lights in? Purple? What's that? It's shimmering. It's coming right through the wall. It looks like a box. We can't both be having an artistic vision. You're not the type. Mourniel Mathaway? Who are you? Where did you come from? You are Mourniel Mathaway? Yes, yes, yes. Meetings from 2487 AD. Oh, 2487 AD? I realize this is a difficult phenomenon for you to grasp entirely, but here I am. We will now indulge in the 20th-century custom of shaky hands. Mr. Mourniel Mathaway? Oh, well, sure, sure, sure. Shake, yes. And you, sir? Yeah, yeah, sure. I don't mind. Shake. What a moment! What a supreme moment! What do you mean, what a moment? What's so special about it? Are you the inventor of time travel? No, no, no. Time travel was invented while that was after your time. It's hardly worth going into at the moment, especially since I only have half an hour. Why half an hour? The skin drum can only be maintained at lock. The skin drum is, well, call it the transmitting device. It enables me to appear in your period. There is such an enormous expenditure of power required that a trip into the past is made only every 50 years. The privilege is awarded as a sort of gobel. I believe I have the word right. It is gobel, isn't it? The award made in your time? Well, you wouldn't mean nobel by any chance with the Nobel Prize. That's it! The Nobel Prize. A trip is awarded to outstanding scholars as a kind of Nobel Prize. Once every 50 years, the man selected by the Garter Max is the most preeminent, that sort of thing, you know. Up to now, of course, it's always gone to historians or they put it away on the Siege of Troy and the first atom bomb explosion at Los Alamos or the, well, the discovery of America, things like that. But this year... Yes? Well, what kind of scholar are you? I am an art scholar. My specialty is art history and my special field in art history is... What? What? What? You, Mr. Mathaway. In my own period, I may say without much contradiction, I am the greatest living authority on the life and works of Morniel Mathaway. My special field is you. Dave. Dave, did you hear that? Dave. Dave! I heard. Do you mean... Do you mean that I... Famous? That famous? Famous? You, my dear sir, are beyond fame. You are one of the immortals the human race has produced. That famous? That famous? Who is the man with whom modern painting and its full glory is said to have definitely begun? Who is the man whose designs and color have dominated architecture for the past five centuries? Who is responsible for the arrangement of our cities? The shape of our artifacts? The texture of our clothing? Me. No other man in the history of art has exerted such a massive influence over design. To whom can I compare you, sir? To what other artist in history can I possibly compare you? Rembrandt? Da Vinci? Rembrandt and Da Vinci in the same breath as you. That's ridiculous. They lacked your universality, your taste for the cosmic. Wow! Mr. Glesko, excuse me. Do you happen to know of a poet named David Danziger? Did much of his work survive? Is that you? Yes, that's me. Dave Danziger? Well, no, no, no. I don't think so. The only poet I can remember for this time and this part of the world is Peter Tebb. Tebb never heard of him. Then this must have been before he was discovered. But you see, I am an art scholar. Well, you see, checking my chronometer, I see my time is getting short. But it is an overwhelming delight for me to be standing in your studio, Mr. Mathaway, and looking at you at last in the flesh. I wonder if you would mind obliging me with a small favor. Oh, sure, sure. You name it. Nothing's too good for you. What do you want? I wonder... I'm sure you don't mind. Could you possibly let me look at your painting, the one that you're working on at this very moment? Well, sure, sure. I have one right over here. Just, uh, I'll pull the easel around. There you are. I intend to call this Figured Figurines Number 29. Hmm? But this... What's the matter? Well, surely this... this isn't your work, Mr. Mathaway. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's my work, all right. Figured Figurines Number 29. Recognize it? No, I do not recognize it, and that is a fact for which I am extremely grateful. Could I see something else, please? Something a little later? Well, that's the latest. Everything else is earlier. Here, here, you might like this. Now, I call this Figured Figurines Number 22. I think it's the best of my early period. Oh, oh, dear. You know, what this looks like, a smear as a paint on top of other smears of paint? Right. Only I call it Smudge on Smudge. But you probably know all about that being such an authority on me. And now, here we have Figured Figurines Number 12. Do you, do you mind leaving these Figurines, Mr. Mathaway? I'd like to see something of yours with, with color, with color and form. Well, I haven't done any real color work for a long time. Oh, wait a minute. Wait. I, I have one over here somewhere. An old canvas. I was going to paint over it. Ah, ah, here we are. This is one of the few examples of my mauve and mottled period that I've kept. No, no, no. I can't imagine why. It's positively, it's... Oh, oh, dear. Oh, now wait a minute. Let me show you some of my intestinal period. Ah, here. I have a particularly good one. It's called Large Intestine Rampant. You like it? No. Oh, please, please. You know, I think I'd like to sit down. Well, take the comfortable chair. And here's another one called Small Intestine Incisive. Oh, it's rather good, don't you think? I managed to avoid completely any definite line. You understand? I don't suppose you ever drink of glyphax. Oh, no, no. Of course you don't do it. It hasn't been invented yet. Oh, now here's one that's bound to be great. It's called Fly Ash. I painted it by coating the canvas with slow-setting glue and leaving it out on the window for about two and a half hours. Notice the delicate deposit of soot. No, no, no, please. Please, Ms. Mathaway, please, please. Oh, I've got lots more. You know, I don't understand this. All of these canvases. This is obviously before you discover yourself in your true technique. But I'm looking for a sign! A hint to the genius that is to come. And I find... Well, how about this one? Here, here. Oh, please, please, please. Oh, take that away. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, no, no. Look, I'll have to leave soon. I don't understand this at all. Let me show you something here, gentlemen. Here. A pocket edition of the source book. The Complete Paintings of Morniel Mathaway, 1928, 1996. Were you born in 1928? Yep. May 23rd, 1928. Here. Look at the first painting. Oh, that... that's beautiful. I mean, the color, that's incredible. Oh. Oh, well, that stuff. Oh, why didn't you tell me you wanted that kind of stuff? You mean... you mean you have paintings like this, too? No, no, no. Not paintings. One painting. Oh, I did it last week as a sort of an experiment, but I wasn't satisfied with the way it turned out, so I gave it to the girl downstairs. Would you like to look at it? Oh, yes, yes, yes. Very much, very much. Well, here, I'll just toss you a book on the bed. Come on, it won't take a minute or two. Oh, she's not home. I thought she'd be home now. Oh, I did so want you to see that painting. I want to see it. I want to see anything that looks like your mature work, but time is getting short. I'll tell you what. Anita here has a couple of cats that she asked me to feed when she's away for a while, so she's given me the key to her apartment. Suppose I, uh, browse upstairs and get it. But she... Suppose I browse through my room and get it. Get it? Oh, yeah. Yeah, you go ahead and browse, sure. Fine, fine, but please hurry. Oh, sure, sure, I'll hurry. I won't take long browsing. Well, that was it, the high sign. I'd seen Mournial Math away in action too many times as a shoplifter not to understand it. He was going upstairs to lift that book that he'd dropped on the bed. I knew he hadn't ever painted a picture on the book, but he would now. Only he wouldn't paint them. He'd copy them. Well, I started talking automatically. You, uh, paint yourself, Mr. Glassfield? No, no, no, no, I... Of course I wanted to be an artist when I was a boy. I imagine every critic starts out that way, but I found it far easier to write about paintings than to do them. Once I began reading the life of Mournial Math away, I knew I had found my field. Not only do I empathize closely with his paintings, but just so much like a person I could have known and liked. That's one of the things that puzzles me. He's quite different from what I had imagined. Yes, I bet he is. Of course history has a way of adding romance to an important figure. Oh, dear, I'm running out of time here. Do you think you'll be back with the keys soon? I practically no time left. I've just got to get upstairs to the time translator. I just can't wait. I'll have to hurry now. Oh, dear, I did want to see an original Math away. I did want to. Oh, what's the matter? The time translator, it isn't here. It's gone. The book is gone, too. And Math away, he stranded me here. He must have figured out that getting inside and closing the door made it return. Yeah, he's a great figure, and he'll probably figure out a very plausible story to tell the people in your time to explain how the whole thing happened. Why should he work his head off in the 20th century when he can be an outstanding hero-worship celebrity in the 25th? That's what'll happen if he asks him to paint merely one picture. I don't know if he knows he can no longer add anything of importance to it. He'll no doubt end up giving lectures on himself. Don't worry, he'll make out. It's you I'm worried about. You're stuck here, aren't you? Are they likely to send a rescue party at you? No. Every scholar who wins the award has to sign a waiver of responsibility in case he doesn't return. No, I'm... I'm stuck here. Tell me, is it... is it very bad living in this period? Well, not so bad. Of course, you'll need a Social Security card, and I don't know how you go about getting one at your age, and the immigration authorities may want to question you since you're sort of an illegal alien. Oh, dear, dear. That's awful. Wait a minute. It needn't be. I'll tell you what. Monio has a Social Security card. He had a job a couple of years ago. He keeps his birth certificate and that draw along with his other papers. Now, why don't you just assume his identity? That's what you think I could. Well, would I be... Well, won't his friends, his relatives... No, he hasn't got any family, and I'm about the only friend he's got. You could get away with it. Maybe draw a beard and dye it blonde. Naturally, the big problem would be earning a living. Being a specialist on math away and the art movements derived from him wouldn't get you set on an awful lot right now. But I could paint. I've always dreamed of being an artist. I don't have much talent, but there are all kinds of artistic novelties I know about, all kinds of graphic innovations that don't exist in your time. Surely that would be enough, even without talent, to make a living for me on some third or fourth rate level. Yeah, certainly was. But not on a third or fourth rate level. Mr. Glescu, that is Monio Mathaway, is the finest painter alive today and the unhappiest. After his last wildly successful exhibition, I remember he said to me, What's the matter with all these people praising me like that? I don't have an ounce of real talent in me. All my work is completely derivative. I've tried, I've tried to do something, anything that was completely my own, but I'm so steeped in Mathaway that I can't seem to make my own personality come through. And those idiotic critics go on raving about me, and the work isn't even my own. Well, then who's is it? Mathaway's, of course. We thought there couldn't be a time paradox. I wish you could read all the scientific papers on the subject. They fill whole libraries because it isn't possible that time specialists argue for a painting to be copied from a future reproduction and so have no original artist. But that's what I'm doing. I'm copying from that book by memory. Oh, look, Glescu, that is, Mathaway, don't knock yourself out. But it's dishonest. No, it isn't. You're deliberately trying not to copy those paintings. You're working so hard at it that you refuse to think about that book or even discuss it. As a matter of fact, when I tried to get you to talk about it a little while ago, you couldn't actually remember it. That's true, that's true. You're the real Monial Mathaway, and there's no paradox. You're actually painting those pictures. You're not copying them from memory. I know in my heart that they're not mine. All right, I'll forget it. Anyway, you're a much nicer guy than Mathaway ever was. Then besides, a buck is a buck. You have just heard X-1 presented by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine, which this month features LULU by Clifford D. Simac, a story which demonstrates that a spaceship should be a darb, a smasher, a pip, a butte. But man, all battle stations, if it ever becomes a sweetheart of a ship. Galaxy Magazine, on your newsstand today. Tonight, X-1 has brought you the discovery of Monial Mathaway, a story from the pages of Galaxy written by William 10 and adapted for radio by Ernest Kanoy. Featured in our cast were Leon Jani as Mathaway, Guy Rep as the critic, Wendell Holmes as Glasgow, and Bless Damon as Dave, your announcer Fred Collins. X-1 was directed by Daniel Sutter and is an NBC radio network production.